


Of Our Days in the Sun

by jehane18



Series: Broadway Backwards [1]
Category: Broadway RPF, Les Misérables RPF
Genre: Broadway, Crossdressing, Dressing Room Sex, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Masturbation, Muscles, Porn Battle, Prompt Fill, Songfic, Stage Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 18:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6340078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane18/pseuds/jehane18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ramin gives Will some notes on his performance. Will tries to reciprocate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Our Days in the Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Brawn Valjean](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3878308) by [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel). 



"Good call to go one octave down," said Ramin.

He'd taken hold of Will the moment Will had come offstage, in a way that clearly signalled his intent: one big arm wrapped around Will’s body, his free hand finding purchase in the tangled curls of Will’s wig.

He was also helpfully giving Will performance notes. "Not that you can't hit D5, but the last verse was right in your pocket, man, it was incredible."

Will tried to focus past the post-performance high and the buzz of Ramin’s nearness, but it wasn't an easy task. Pressed under Ramin’s arm, he could feel the rippling of those familiar Atlas-sculpted muscles through his own thick costume and Ramin’s much thinner one. It would take a wooden-hearted man to not be distracted, and Will was not that man.

They were walking so fast his tail kept getting tangled between his legs; he had to concentrate to keep his footing on the uneven floorboards. He wasn’t sure where Ramin was steering them, past lights and rigging and the rest of the Al Hirshfield theatre backstage crew, but he’d never been able to stop his Valjean taking the lead, anyhow.

Ramin led them purposefully down another dimly-lit corridor, expounding in similar purposeful fashion about the mid-range tempo of Will’s song. The sounds of their co-stars taking their final stage bows, the crowd’s applause, echoed tinnily in the distance. Will figured that someone would come looking for Ramin and him at some point -- the Broadway Backwards after-parties were supposedly not to be missed, he’d heard about that one year when Jonathan Groff popped, squished and sixed the entire Backwards Cell Block Tango cast -- but at that moment, party or no party, Will Swenson had someplace else to be.

That place, as he discovered when they eventually got to it, was Ramin’s dressing room. That was a pretty good call, then.

“Next time maybe I’ll try the song in the original key,” Will said, when Ramin paused for breath and to kick the door shut behind them.

“My friend! I take a break from tour, I fly 2,000 miles to New York City to sing with you, the least you could do is pay attention.”

“I always pay attention to you,” Will said, only partly kidding. He twisted around in Ramin’s arms so he could look at him properly. “I just wonder if I should’ve tried to go with the Elaine Paige version, you know, in the spirit of Backwards.”

“Think you can handle the Elaine version?” Ramin said. He smirked a little under Will’s regard. He was dressed as a grisette in her underthings: cute cap tilted at a deliberate angle, dirt rakishly highlighting his cheekbones, a flimsy full-sleeved chemise and fringed shawl and pantaloons making a showcase of that ripped, strong Valjean body. God knows if Ramin had tried this on their run, neither of them would have made it to final curtain.

Will’s fingers itched to do violence to the ridiculous costume, but he was in enough trouble with the Les Miserables Broadway wardrobe mistress as it was. He settled for taking the cap off Ramin’s head and pulling him closer instead.

“Anyway,” Will said, “you didn’t fly here just to sing with _me_ , and you head back to Nebraska tomorrow, and you never met a performance that you didn’t wanna give notes about.”

That was the truth of the matter: the Broadway Cares committee had wanted Ramin to reprise the genderswap Fantine number he’d been singing all tour, for charity, and Ramin Karimloo had never met a good cause he could say no to, either. The fact that Will had been asked to do a number, too, was secondary.

Ramin’s eyes shone earnestly under the low light. “There's always room for improvement,” he said, and leaned in.

Kissing Ramin was a rush, as always: slow and messy and not enough. He heard himself groan helplessly and felt Ramin’s mouth against his curve upwards in a satisfied smile. Possibly the man’s charitable impulses extended to _this_ , as well - Audra had said as much, anyway, when she Skyped from Paris to tease him about it last night. It must have been charity that had moved Ramin to let Will into his pants that first time, that was behind the texting of nude selfies from Vegas and Indianapolis and Philadelphia and the indulgent kissing tweets, because there was no other reason for a boy from small town Utah to be here in this cramped dressing room with Ramin fucking Karimloo.

Will eventually came up for air, panting and as hard as any small town boy would be in the circumstances. Ramin ran his fingers over Will’s lower lip, and then grasped Will’s jaw, tilting his face toward the dressing room mirror light so he could study it at a more critical angle. "Hair and makeup: not bad. It helps that you’re this pretty." He frowned. "Too much mascara, though."

Will only knew mascara in the volume of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, so this particular note didn't put him off his stride. He rolled out his Les Mis accent. "I disagree, Monsieur. I’m told it’s how they used to do for Elaine Paige in the role."

"Mm." Ramin sounded noncommittal. “Elaine can carry it, but it’s not as good a look on you.”

Will opened his mouth to protest, but Ramin’s fingers pressed against his mouth, cutting him off and smearing his stage lipstick across his chin, and damn if he wasn't short of breath again.

"Also, the outfit. Let’s talk about where you were going with it?"

Will leaned away from Ramin's hand, with some difficulty, and looked down at his Grizabella costume, which he felt was entirely on point. True, he had made some adjustments to the bodysuit so it would be open to the waist, but otherwise this was a homage to the original design: silver-and-grey faux-fur, furry boots, pointy cat ears and curly wig, fluffy tactile catboy tail.

Perhaps the sparkly bra was too much of a nod to the spirit of Backwards, but surely Ramin couldn’t begrudge him this one small indulgence.

"What's wrong with it? It's _memorable_ , like the song says. Maybe I was taking a leaf from your playbook, Brawn Valjean."

Ramin snorted, and curled his hands in the voluminous wig. "Will, Will. You know this is much too sexy, and it’s insufficient motivation for the role. Nobody will believe you'd be left with _burnt out ends of smoky days_.” He tugged the wig off and shook out Will's real hair, and the cat ears followed the mass of curls onto the dressing room floor. “I think we need to find a better costume for your character."

“Hey!" Will said, but it was too late. Ramin made fists in the soft faux-fur, and there was a distinct ripping sound, and, holy hell, Ramin was as much of a beast as he had ever been. Even stronger, if that were possible. Those insane muscles flexed again, and more fur strained and tore apart across Will’s body.

“Fuck, Ramin, this belongs to wardrobe!”

“My donation should cover it,” said Ramin, smugly, and buried his nose in Will’s bared clavicle. “See, here’s where the problem is. You were singing about _the stale cold smell of morning_ ? But you look like you actually smell great, and you do. _So_ great.”

Will struggled as Ramin bit into his shoulder, but Ramin tightened his grip on Will's upper arms and pushed him up against the dressing room wall and bracketed Will's thighs with his. It was like being caught in an implacable vise of iron, he couldn't twist away.

He did keep struggling, anyway, even though it was hopeless. Fighting Ramin's brute strength made his breath come faster, made his dick, trapped out of reach under faux fur and against the crotch of those flirty grisette drawers, even more desperately hard.

"Shh," Ramin said, softly, into Will's skin, like he had done the last time they'd sung together in each other's arms. "Okay, here's another thing that’s inaccurate motivation. You sang, _'Touch me, it's so easy to leave me'_ ? But it's so obviously not true. I should know. It's the hardest thing in the world, Midnight."

Despite himself, pinned half-naked to the dressing room wall, Will had to blink back the memory of climbing out of Ramin's bed in Washington Heights in the height of their invincible summer, sun-warmed and sleepy and without a care in the world, other than making it to fight call that afternoon and being fucked into this mattress that night... Jesus Christ, now his mascara was kind of running. Ramin might have been right about that, too.

"Not everyone has your personal knowledge, asshole. My motivation's totally intact."

Ramin dragged his tongue down the length of Will's neck, the wet trail making Will fight and jerk uselessly against him. "Have it your way, then. Need to leave you with _something_ intact."

Ramin continued, archly, "Maybe not this, though," and ripped the remaining shreds of the catsuit off Will's arms and heaving chest, leaving him bare and at Ramin's mercy.

"You're such a jackass," Will said, helplessly, going slack in Ramin's grasp, spreading his legs for him, and at last Ramin took pity and reached down the ruined waistband of Will's costume to take him in hand.

This was a rush, too: good, better than good, no words for it, way too much and not enough. Will's head thudded back against the wall, his knees shaking, the guitar callouses on Ramin's fingers rubbing pain and pleasure against his overheated flesh. 

A beat, and Ramin asked, earnestly, "So, any notes for me?"

Will found he couldn't form words with Ramin's hand on his dick, Ramin deploying a slow, tantalizing squeeze that was just fast enough to make him crazy and not fast enough to make him come. "Um," he said, eloquently, "keep doing that? So good?"

"On my _performance_ , Will."

Ramin slowed his movements, letting his fist go calculatedly loose. Will groaned and banged his head against the wall again and tried his best to review: Ramin deserved a pro answer to his serious question, and goddamn it, they were both professionals, it was one of the best things between them.

After a while, he ventured, "I liked how you didn't change the pronouns this time?"

Ramin was instantly there, although -- damn it -- his hand didn't speed up, still jacking slow, thumb swiping maddeningly across the head of Will's prick, making his hips thrust up in a frantic attempt to get more friction. " _' He slept a summer at my side '_? You think I should've kept the pronouns on tour?"

"Yeah, not _'she filled my days with endless wonder'_. Unless --" Will pulled Ramin's other hand into his bra, "-- this is what you had in mind?"

Ramin rolled Will's nipple between thumb and forefinger, then plucked hard, and Will bit back a stuttering cry. " _'But he was gone when autumn came.'_ You know what, I think this verse needs more coming."

Will panted, "Happy to oblige, as long as you -– damn it, Ramin, please -–", and Ramin finally, thank fucking God, sped up the wringing rhythm of his hand on Will.

Too much, not enough, pleasure and pain -- Will couldn't handle any more, he craved it more and so much more, he couldn't do anything but fuck himself into Ramin's fist and pant and thrash and buck between Ramin’s thighs as if he were dying.

"Shhh," Ramin breathed again, and began, unbelievably, to sing. " _'He took my childhood in his stride...'_ Will, sing for me -–"

"Oh shit," Will groaned, tried to pull the shreds of himself together so he could answer in kind, felt Ramin wrench the song out of him as if it were made of wings, and light -– 

" _'-– If you touch me -– you'll understand -– what happiness is –-'_ "

– " _That's_ it," Ramin said, and Will hit the high D5 after all as he came and came all over the scraps of faux fur and the stupid grisette costume.

When he was done his legs couldn't hold him up, so Ramin had to: folding him to his chest as if Will was every swooning romantic companion on every rom-com playbill cover in the entire world, cradling him in the muscular arms that Will tried not to think about every damn day.

"Fuck me," he said, weakly, at last.

“That's up next," Ramin said, agreeably. He petted Will's sweat-damp hair. "You sounded good, Willie. Maybe you’re right about keeping to the original key.”

Will snorted, and then, with some effort, reached for the Elaine Paige mezzo-soprano: " _'...I was beautiful then'_?"

"Always, you delicious hunk of Utah. Now, turn around."

**Author's Note:**

> For Esteliel’s PBAM prompt: _RPF (Broadway), Ramin Karimloo/Will Swenson, stage, catboy, tears, ripping_ ; here [on dw](http://pbam.dreamwidth.org/5608.html?thread=175848#cmt175848).
> 
> I realise this isn’t quite the catboys AU she likely envisaged, and it’s not as if she asked for genderswap singing, either, but it so happened that the annual one-night-only [Broadway Backwards](https://www.broadwaycares.org/backwards) concert took place on the first day of the Battle, and I could not resist. Title from that Andrew Lloyd Webber song we all pretend we don’t know.


End file.
